by N. M. Black
Contents
Playlist
Zombie Breeds
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by N.M. Black
About N.M. Black
Dark Horizon
Copyright © 2019 N.M. Black
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used factitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission for the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.
Cover Design: Black Widow Designs
Formatting: Black Widow Designs
Happy Death Day- Alien Ant Farm
My Own Summer- Deftones
Hoodie- Hey Violet
Everything Goes Black- Skillet
It’s Alright- Mother Mother
Hey, Ma- Bon Iver
Like a Nightmare- Never Say Die
Power Over Me- Dermot Kennedy
The Funeral- Band of Horses
Cringe- Matt Maeson
Never Stop- Hidden Citizens
Hold My Girl (acoustic version)- Geroge Ezra
Leave It All Behind- Sleeping With Sirens
Medicine- USS
Rise Above It- I Prevail, Justin Stone
I Remember Way Too Much- Mod Sun
Not Too Late- Moon Taxi
Hold You Down- X Ambassadors
Bruises- Lewis Capaldi
Walk- Pantera
Superbeast- Rob Zombie
Adrenalize- In This Moment
Till I Found You- Phil Wickham
Fire Up The Night- New Medicine
Listen to the playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7wXWovjzGVybqGY50neCX9?si=stGzzXgWQDutgfi6xb8NEQ
Gen One zombies- They're "normal" for all intents and purposes with no special abilities. Their eyes a bright yellow, pale skin coloring. Easy to kill.”
Sprinters- They’re incredibly fast, not smart and very weak. It doesn’t take much to overpower them. A single shot kill is achievable.
Tanks- Slow but strong. Picture that giant from the shower scene in Resident Evil. The only way to kill them is to sever their heads from their spine. A bullet will not stop them.
Pukers or Boilers- Exactly how they sound, vomits on attacker, quickly infects if gotten into eyes, mouth, nose, or open wounds. Not as easy to kill unless you have long range weapons. Distance is key.
Addicts and Crazies- their narcotic of choice or their mental diagnosis, will determine their special abilities. Some have bursts of energy, others are very slow. Some can even jump and scale objects and buildings. Their most pronounced feature is the bright red rim around their irises and their veins are highly visible. Never count them as a one shot kill, and always keep your distance. They are highly unpredictable.
Demon Z’s- They're smaller than Gen One zombies, thin and pale, with fully blacked out eyes. Rather than the typical grunts zombies make, they have a banshee-like screech that can debilitate anyone or anything in close range. They're also extremely fast which makes them hard to kill. Another clear trait of a Demon is the black tar they constantly spew.
Hybrid- No longer human, but not undead either. Can still die like a human though.
*Cidiots- City Idiot (Urban Dictionary Definition; The person who dwells in a city but ventures into rural areas to perform acts of stupidity. A classic cidiot cannot read a map, is terrified of "rednecks" (anyone the cidiot perceived to be rural is a redneck) and cannot take directions.
February 17th, one year ago….
It’s been three days since the outbreak started, the warning alarm still ringing out across the city, eliciting chaos and panic from those still trying to make their escape. People line the streets, trying desperately to outrun the virus that continues to spread out of control. Vehicles crammed bumper to bumper as they try to evade the ever-growing population of zombies, but getting nowhere fast. Families separated trying to survive in smaller numbers, but nothing changes the outcome of their fate.
I’ve thrived on these streets for years, and know every back alley, detour and unused road in this city, making it easy for me to navigate without drawing attention to myself and skating under the military’s radar. This is just like any other day for me, fighting for survival, but these Cidiots, they don’t stand a chance. Their life of convenience is no more. Those they feared, those whose life has been a constant struggle, are going to be the ones that survive.
I don’t have much, being practically homeless, the sum of my life is in two duffle bags in the back, making my getaway that much easier. Especially now, since I’m down a person. We agreed that if we didn’t meet up at our designated spot by a certain time, the other is to leave. No questions asked. But I can't ignore the nagging feeling that I should see if Bea is alive. As much as I don’t think so, that old bird is feisty as shit, and she might actually bite one of them back.
She’s in her 70’s and can wield a baseball bat like a major league player, with the mouth of a sailor. I made the mistake of breaking into her house one night, thinking no one was home, but boy was I wrong. I climbed through her living room window and before my feet touched the carpet, she had me on my ass gasping for the breath she knocked out of me. That woman had stripped me of my homemade bat, knocked me half unconscious and poured herself a drink before I even saw her from the shadows. The next night was the first of many that I ate dinner with Bea.
Fuck!
I yanked the wheel of the stolen SUV to the left and head down a side street and through someone's backyard, dodging a small group of z’s that have currently made a buffet of someone’s family dog. I couldn’t live with myself if she was still alive and I left her to a similar fate.
I pull around to the side door of her house and check that there’s no z’s, before jumping out to go in after her. Fuck, I hope she’s here.
As I approach the screen door, my worst fear is playing out right in front of me. There, pinned up against the counter is Bea, and one of them has her caged and lurches at her repeatedly. She must be in shock because she just stands there, arms stretched out in front of her, frozen in place, barely dodging the zombies’ constant attack.
I don't hesitate, grabbing my own version of Neagan’s Lucille, as I fling open the screen door, catching its attention. Its head practically does a 180 as it takes in fresh meat and I can’t stop the curse that leaves my lips. Joe, her brother and best friend, stares back at me through those yellow infected eyes, but I know that’s no longer him. The virus controls him now.
He steps away from Bea, and I now have his full attention and I plan to keep it that way until she can get out the door to my “borrowed”
vehicle. I glance towards her to try and telepathically relay this and to make sure she’s ok, but she won’t make eye contact with me to confirm. If I can keep Joe from turning around, she can make it to the truck and we can make a break for it. But she still hasn’t moved a muscle.
“Bea!” I shout, trying to catch her attention and snap her into gear, but all that manages to do is solidify the unwanted advance of zombie Joe.
I step to the side, wanting to put the counter between us, but he surprises me and leaps up, clearing the counter completely, as agile as an Olympic athlete. We crash to the floor as our limbs tangle, each of us fighting for the upper hand and he knocks my bat from my grasp. I thrash my head back and forth trying to keep his snapping jaw from making contact, but it’s no use. He’s stronger and much more determined.
Just as I let my arms go limp and accept my fate, Joe’s eyes go wide in fear and he freezes in place. Slowly, his body slumps to the side, crashing down to the floor beside me, as my heart continues to race at how close I came to joining team Z.
And there where he stood, with a large kitchen knife suspended from her hand dripping with black ichor, stands Bea.
“Woman! Get in this truck before I leave you here for dead!” I shout out the window at Bea, who is ignoring the not so small group of zombies coming our way. Sure, the thick blankets of snow slow them down, but it slows us down too.
“Shut your mouth or I'll kick your emo ass!” she shouts back, drawing more unwelcome attention.
“It’s steampunk, not emo. And if I die for this shit, you best believe I'm coming to find you and bite your ass!” I toss out, as my knee begins to bounce uncontrollably at the sight of the incoming hoard of teeth that are getting closer in my rearview mirror. I drop the plow into the fresh powder, ready to take off the second Bea gives me the signal.
She tosses the last of her personal haul into the truck and jumps in, slapping her hand on the dash to signal she’s ready. I punch the gas, shooting us into our seats and take off before we’re swarmed. My truck can handle plowing through them and the snow, but it’s not fun cleaning out their guts and shit from the undercarriage. And don’t even get me started on the smell.
“Listen, you don’t hear me complain every time you put us in compromising positions for, he who should not be named.” She throws at me with an eyebrow cocked and a wicked smirk stretched across her face. She’s right. I’ve done many trips and side excursions that are not sanctioned and definitely not considered safe by any means, putting us in precarious situations, for the man in question.
He who should not be named is named that for a very good reason. Many arguments have ensued at just the use of Chris’s name in this truck. Chris is both mine and Bea’s kryptonite, but for very different reasons. Bea is completely repulsed by his existence and voices it- loudly, I might add- that she is disappointed he’s survived the apocalypse, whenever given the chance. But for me, Chris is both my weakness and my strength. He has this ability to make me think I can do anything, be anything with him by my side, and at the same time, holds the power to break me apart.
Just the thought of him sends shivers of heat, both good and bad throughout my body. I can’t help my reaction to him, trust me, I’ve tried. Right now, however, my anger is definitely winning out this time around and I do nothing to temper it.
When I left the other day, I was pissed at him for what happened the night before I left, and I still am. We always spend time together before I head out on scavenging trips, it’s something we’ve done since the beginning. But that night was different. That night he was different.
Chris runs his finger along one of the straps that encase my left thigh and my breath catches in the back of my throat. He’s never done this. Never been this close, this forward in his actions toward me. I’ve never allowed anyone to touch me before, and I’m not sure what to do, but I won’t stop him either.
He doesn’t say a word or look at anything other than where his finger meets the leather on my leg. I hold my breath as he slides it back and forth, loosening the strap with each pass and glides his hand beneath it, but never coming in actual contact with my body. As close as he always seems to get, he never actually touches me directly. Always indirectly.
“Why do you always wear this...stuff?” Chris gestures to the rest of my outfit. I have on a leather corset, with matching forearm guards. Leather straps cling to my thighs and shoulders, holstering a weapon on each side.
He always talks shit about my leathers, trying to get a rise out of me. And it works. Every damn time. He taunts me like an older sibling would taunt their younger, more annoying one.
But I don’t want to be his sibling.
He can be relentless at times, having no idea what my life was truly like while growing up. Having no idea what it feels like to struggle with no family, no house and no money.
But this time it’s different.
This time I’m not going to hold back to save his feelings or mine, no matter how long I’ve waited for this moment. For once, I want him to see how adult I can really be. How experienced I really am.
When I gather the nerve to look at him, I falter at the intensity in his eyes but regain my composure quickly before I deliver the truth that might end this before it even has the chance to begin.
“I grew up on the streets, fighting for every meal, every penny and every day to live. Crashing in parks, under bridges or from couch to couch, just to stay under the radar of child services. I had to learn to protect myself at a young age. Always play defence.” His hand freezes its movements and I shrug as though it’s no big deal. Because to me, it’s not. Like I said, this was my life.
He slowly withdraws his hand and turns his body to face me and locks his gaze on mine. “That doesn’t explain the wardrobe at all. And why were you running from child services? I thought they were supposed to help people, you know, in your situation.” His voice takes on a low growl and the last word comes out in disgust causing my anger to rise instantly, ready to defend myself for something out of my control.
He looks away, clearly uncomfortable with my reaction to the topic and I’m not so sure he can handle my answer and what it implies. But I don’t care that he’s uncomfortable. I lived through uncomfortable. I embrace uncomfortable. He always sees me as this little girl, but right now, I am about to open his eyes and show him just how little I’m not. He’s pushed too far and now he will understand exactly where my anger and distrust stem from.
And this time, I won’t be giving him a dumbed-down version of my horror story, no, this time he will have to deal with the nightmares just like I do.
“Being placed in the system is usually worse than being homeless. Moved around from school to school if you don’t fit in with your current family, having to adapt to home after home, and get along with complete strangers who want nothing to do with you. Most times. At least if you’re homeless, you don’t have to worry about the ones meant to protect you demanding payment, in a form other than what is promised to them by the government. Or have your step-siblings that you’re forced to share a room with try to force things on you, or to try and take one of the few things you possess of your own.” I let the last of that sentence trail off, giving him the full effect of its meaning and letting it sink in. Let him picture the things I pray to never see again, to never dream about again, before I finish shattering the happy life bubble he was so lucky to have experienced while I starved more nights than I didn’t.
“The leather straps slow down those hands that get a little over affectionate with their new housemate, giving me time to get away or defend myself. They also protected me from people who didn’t want me as a new house mate, and stopped knives, shivs and any other sharp object intending me harm from hitting vital organs or causing serious damage. And as of late, that includes teeth.” His head snaps back in my direction and his eyes narrow on me, as though he’s angry at my last statement. Too bad. Time to open your eyes and see the real world around you. I’m not goi
ng to sugarcoat shit for him or anyone else anymore.
“You think this is me trying to look good? That I’m making some kind of fashion statement?” A maniacal laugh escapes my throat as I match his glare with one of my own. He thinks because I’m young that I haven’t lived, or have no experience but in all actuality, I probably have more than he does.
“This is me trying to stay alive, trying to protect myself from the things that go bump in the night. You should know by now Chris, not all monsters hide under our beds.”
The sound of Bea’s laughter drags me from my thoughts as she assumes she’s won the argument due to my silence, and I don’t bother to correct her. There’s no use. Telling her what happened with Chris will only cause another argument I’m not willing to have right now. So instead, I redirect the conversation back to her.
“Seriously though, what are you gonna do when all this shit runs out?” I pop my thumb towards the back of the truck, indicating her reason for our current dialogue.
“Then I’ll make it. If I’m forced to live out this hell we call life, then I will do it fuzzy. I don’t want to be reminded every day, how this all happened and who I lost during its demise.” Her tone leaves no room for discussion or argument, like every time before, that I’ve brought up the topic of her drinking. And guilt shreds my insides as if I just swallowed a handful of razor blades.
